The frogs, too, added to the droning of the mosquitoes what we may call their peculiar Plain Songs or Gregorian chants. They were very tame, showing no fear of us, but took up their abode here, there, and everywhere: out in the open air, or in the huts, in our books, under our tins, and in our water-vessels, and their ceaseless singing in full solemn tones, echoed that of the distant choirs of their wilder brethren chattering together amongst the grass by the river-side. Although not composed on the spot, I cannot refrain from quoting the following sonnet, produced by a member of our expedition, and which forms a kind of sequel to the others I have transcribed above— LOVE-SONG. When evening falls upon the land asleep, When mute the singers of the tropic plain, When winds die down, and every bird’s refrain Or insect’s cry is hush’d in silence deep; Then from the lotus beds triumphant leap Frantic crescendoes of a rhythmic strain, Wild cadences mount up, to sink again Lamenting, as when mourners wail and weep;— Comes to the traveller upon the stream, A Plain-Song Litany of high despair; The notes Gregorian fit into his dream Of home and fatherland, remotely fair;— Whilst from the gleaming mud in Niger’s course Rises an amorous croak, now sweet, now hoarse. In every country in the world fine weather comes after rain, and the tornado was succeeded on the Niger by a star-light night of a clearness and limpidity such as is never seen anywhere out of the tropics. The soft murmur of the Niger was borne to us upon the gentle night breeze, reminding us of the Fulah proverb— “_Ulululu ko tiaygueul, so mayo héwi, déguiet_,” which may be translated— “Ulululu cries the brook, the big river is silent.” A true description indeed of what really often seemed to happen during our long imprisonment on our island, for we could hear the gurgling of the rapid further down-stream, but the voice of the river was hushed. Our nights passed quietly enough, watch being always kept by one white man, one black subordinate officer, and two coolies. From Timbuktu to Lokodja, that is to say, from January 21 to October 21, we five Europeans had taken the night-watch in turn. It must be admitted that at Fort Archinard it was sometimes rather difficult to remain awake, and to keep ourselves from yielding to our exhausting fatigue. We had to resort to various manœuvres, such as pinching ourselves, bathing our feet, wrists, or head, and walking rapidly up and down. Sometimes, as one or another of us sat in Father Hacquart’s folding-chair, looking out upon the moon-lit scene, there was something very charming about the silence and repose, and as we have already given several quotations of poetical effusions, I think I must add just one more on the night-watch, also composed by one of our party. NIGHT-WATCH. I loll and smoke, with mind a-blank;—we sail